Tracie. I drained my drink and stood up. The pain in my head made me wince.
“Are you okay?” Sharren said.
“I need to get something to eat.”
“I’m off at ten, but I could stay later if…”
Sharren leaned forward. The front of her shirt fell away, as I’m sure she intended, and I could see the swell of her breasts encased in flimsy black nylon and lace. I forced myself to look away but could do nothing about the all too familiar stirring somewhere south of my belt. Will you never grow up? my inner voice asked. What are you talking about? I looked away, didn’t I?
“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I said.
“If you’re having dinner with Tracie Blake, you won’t be out too late,” Sharren said. “So if you want to chat some more, we could have another drink. Or two.”
I knew an invitation when I heard one. Just in case I was brain dead, though, Sharren rose slowly from her chair, stepped in close, and rested her slender fingers on my shoulder at the base of my neck.
This is probably a good time to mention Nina , my inner voice told me. You remember her, don’t you? The love of your life? Only I didn’t want to get into it.
“Be careful,” I said. “People will talk.”
“People will talk anyway.”
I eased Sharren’s hand off my shoulder, gave it a friendly squeeze, and released it.
“I gotta go,” I said.
I stepped around Sharren and headed for the door.
“Have a good time,” she said.
“Don’t wait up,” I told her.
Café Rossini was located on the corner of First and Main, and it had two entrances. Enter from the west like I did and it looked like a neighborhood bar with plenty of worn wood and lights that discouraged reading. The entrance to the dining room was at the north end of the building, and I had to walk through the bar to get to it—you could not see the bar from the dining room.
Unlike the bar, the dining area looked like it had been built in the fifties—it was all stainless steel, Formica, and cold fluorescent lights. A long counter with a dozen round stools bolted to the floor faced the kitchen; slices of various fruit pies were set on small plates and displayed in clear plastic cases near the cash register. Each of the half-dozen booths against the wall had a metal napkin dispenser, bottles of ketchup and mustard, and shakers of salt and pepper. So did the small Formica tables arranged between them. Tinny, unrecognizable music poured from cheap speakers.
I found Tracie sitting in a booth nursing a glass of white zinfandel. The booth had a nice view—we could see the new concrete of Libbie’s main drag. When I mentioned it, Tracie told me that it took the contractor one full day to pour the concrete for a single block of First Street from curb to curb. Two cement trucks at a time would dump their loads into a machine that kept edging forward, leaving a smooth and leveled surface behind it. Tracie was not only proud of the street, she was proud that she and the Libbie City Council had the presence of mind to set up a table with coffee, lemonade, and donuts for the nearly three hundred people who stopped by throughout the day to watch the work.
“You’re wise to public relations,” I said.
“Not wise enough to hide the fact that I’m upset that you kept me waiting,” Tracie said. “Why are you so late? Was it Sharren?”
“The various law enforcement agencies that had been searching for me all day had many questions.”
That slowed her down. “What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
“The truth?”
“It’s always a good idea to tell the truth, especially to the FBI. They get cranky when you don’t.”
“The FBI?”
“When the home security people answered my alarm this morning and found the door smashed open and me gone, who did you think they were going to call? The Boy Scouts of America?”
“I didn’t realize it was that big of a deal.”
“Ever hear of the Lindbergh Act?”
“McKenzie, are you going to press
“Are you okay?” Sharren said.
“I need to get something to eat.”
“I’m off at ten, but I could stay later if…”
Sharren leaned forward. The front of her shirt fell away, as I’m sure she intended, and I could see the swell of her breasts encased in flimsy black nylon and lace. I forced myself to look away but could do nothing about the all too familiar stirring somewhere south of my belt. Will you never grow up? my inner voice asked. What are you talking about? I looked away, didn’t I?
“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I said.
“If you’re having dinner with Tracie Blake, you won’t be out too late,” Sharren said. “So if you want to chat some more, we could have another drink. Or two.”
I knew an invitation when I heard one. Just in case I was brain dead, though, Sharren rose slowly from her chair, stepped in close, and rested her slender fingers on my shoulder at the base of my neck.
This is probably a good time to mention Nina , my inner voice told me. You remember her, don’t you? The love of your life? Only I didn’t want to get into it.
“Be careful,” I said. “People will talk.”
“People will talk anyway.”
I eased Sharren’s hand off my shoulder, gave it a friendly squeeze, and released it.
“I gotta go,” I said.
I stepped around Sharren and headed for the door.
“Have a good time,” she said.
“Don’t wait up,” I told her.
Café Rossini was located on the corner of First and Main, and it had two entrances. Enter from the west like I did and it looked like a neighborhood bar with plenty of worn wood and lights that discouraged reading. The entrance to the dining room was at the north end of the building, and I had to walk through the bar to get to it—you could not see the bar from the dining room.
Unlike the bar, the dining area looked like it had been built in the fifties—it was all stainless steel, Formica, and cold fluorescent lights. A long counter with a dozen round stools bolted to the floor faced the kitchen; slices of various fruit pies were set on small plates and displayed in clear plastic cases near the cash register. Each of the half-dozen booths against the wall had a metal napkin dispenser, bottles of ketchup and mustard, and shakers of salt and pepper. So did the small Formica tables arranged between them. Tinny, unrecognizable music poured from cheap speakers.
I found Tracie sitting in a booth nursing a glass of white zinfandel. The booth had a nice view—we could see the new concrete of Libbie’s main drag. When I mentioned it, Tracie told me that it took the contractor one full day to pour the concrete for a single block of First Street from curb to curb. Two cement trucks at a time would dump their loads into a machine that kept edging forward, leaving a smooth and leveled surface behind it. Tracie was not only proud of the street, she was proud that she and the Libbie City Council had the presence of mind to set up a table with coffee, lemonade, and donuts for the nearly three hundred people who stopped by throughout the day to watch the work.
“You’re wise to public relations,” I said.
“Not wise enough to hide the fact that I’m upset that you kept me waiting,” Tracie said. “Why are you so late? Was it Sharren?”
“The various law enforcement agencies that had been searching for me all day had many questions.”
That slowed her down. “What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
“The truth?”
“It’s always a good idea to tell the truth, especially to the FBI. They get cranky when you don’t.”
“The FBI?”
“When the home security people answered my alarm this morning and found the door smashed open and me gone, who did you think they were going to call? The Boy Scouts of America?”
“I didn’t realize it was that big of a deal.”
“Ever hear of the Lindbergh Act?”
“McKenzie, are you going to press
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